She seemed to be making some sort of inventory. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. She could tell that he was leering at her. “I don’t think she quite sees the harm of those people or the sort of life to which they would draw her,” she said. "I have some difficulty in preventing myself from becoming your executioner. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one. ’ ‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once.
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